For the heck of it:

Another pretentious git?

You are what you read! Sounds a bit corny, doesn't it? Like hewing up a person soon after a good read to figure out whether he's a spavined old deadbeat or a pretentious git.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: "We judge a man by the books he read." In a way, I guess, it's as sound a method of instant character assassination as any other... especially if you use my aunt Jemima as a gauge stick. She has just one bookshelf in her sitting room and it hasn't altered since I learnt to put by ABC together and form a complete word.

They are the same 'book of the month' matching hardbacks that were on display when I first started school, C .P. Snow and Eric Linklater and a tell tale H. E. Bates from the school library, which she never bothered to return.

From this you might conclude that my aunt Jemima subscribes to either the Sunday Observer or the Sunday Times, plays bridge and golf and is a spavined old deadbeat. But meet her in person and you'd have to warp out your conclusion, pretty past.

Judging a man by his books, is in my view, a waffly way to clue in on a person's personality. Take this buddy pal of mine for instance.

A psychologist by profession, he spends his spare time rocking and rolling around the city. That's contradiction No. 1. Number 2 comes when I look at his books shelves. Covered with 19th century Russian novels and solemn historical tomes, they look terribly impressive. But the only things I've actually seen him read are, 'Swamp Thing', 'Mad', 'Judge Dredd' and the sports section of the newspaper. So what does it make him? A pretentious git?

People never know what to make of my bookshelves either.

To mom they were evidence of a misspent fortune. While other teenagers were talking purple hearts or loitering around snack bars, I was up to no good with 'The Four Just Men', or snuggling beneath the bedclothes with 'The Good Companion', and a flashlight. I was a gannet. So what?

These days, a casual visitor to my house could glance at the titles on my shelves and quickly form the idea that I am fabulously well-read, well-informed and well-rounded (intellectually, that is). Whereas the truth is that many of them are just books-I-mean-to-read- when I get three full days off. In other words, I haven't opened them since the day I got them. I have barely dipped into 'Things Seen In Russia', 'I Hear Voices', 'Do You Speak English and Have You Been Raped', Forever Ambridge', 'I Ching' 'The Coming Plague' 'Danger Spots', 'The Philosopher's child' and 'The Hippopotamus'.

I also have a large selection of Reference Books for Use In My Work.

This is the theory. In reality they are a nuisance, because all they do for me declare me the kind of sap who will give the name of all 101 Dalmatians to a friend in the middle of a me-cooked dinner.

These non-reads aside, I also have plenty of books that I have read for pleasure. This is the impressive bit.

Lots of dark green Virago spines, everything that Nevil Shute, David Niven, Stephen Fry, Russel Baker and William F. Buckely Jr. ever wrote, Proust, Kafka, Ludlum and an extensive collection of Judith McNaught. So what does this reveal me as? Another pretentious git with no sense of shame.

Perhaps. But seriously, do you think you are what you read?

- Hana Ibrahim